


Up From the Abyss

by J Millington (valoise)



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1997-08-01
Updated: 1997-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valoise/pseuds/J%20Millington





	Up From the Abyss

Up from the Abyss   
by J. Millington

August 1997

RATING: R  
WARNING: (violence)  
SPOILERS: Although it was outlined in early May, this story definitely  
became a post-Gethsemane story, with additional spoilers for Demons and  
Tunguska/Terma.  
CATEGORY: XA  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files  
characters used herein are the sole intellectual property of Chris Carter,  
1013 Productions, and Fox Television Broadcasting. No infringement or  
copyright invalidation is implied, or should be inferred, from their use in  
this work of fiction All creative works and original characters contained  
herein remain the sole prope‹rty of the author.   
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Miki Akimoto and Joyce McKibben for all their  
encouragement and their suggestions (even those I didn't use). This story was begun  
before we found out Mrs. Mulder's real first name, so she appears here as  
Elizabeth Mulder.  
SUMMARY: Skinner finds out what happened to Mulder and he and the X-Files  
team are drawn into a web of conspiracy that throws Mulder's mother into  
the thick of things.

==================

Part 1

Walter Skinner knew the exact moment he started down the road to hell. He  
wasn't sure if he'd hit bottom yet, but every sign post along the way was  
etched into his soul.

Pouring another drink, he ignored the way his hands shook.

Successful at work, Assistant Director of the FBI, well-respected by those  
agents under his supervision, in favor with those above him. His father, if  
he were still alive, would have been proud. His mother, on the other hand,  
would have looked into his eyes, his heart.

"Oh, Walter," she would have said, "What have you done?"

==================  
==================

Green Meadows Convalescent Home  
Alexandria, Virginia

Every morning started just like this. Milton, the old man in the bed next  
to him, woke first, coughing as if he was going to bring up a lung, then  
hoisted himself into a wheelchair and headed for the bathroom.

The room's other resident tried to gather enough strength to open his eyes.  
Mission accomplished. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to  
think. If he allowed his thoughts to flow freely, his mind to really ponder  
his situation, black despair gripped him and threatened to pull his sanity  
down into a bottomless abyss. Blank existence instead of raging madness,  
was there really that much difference? Either way it blotted out his  
hopeless dreams. Dreams of what had happened, what might have been. Where  
the hell was the nurse with his meds?

"Okay, gentlemen, time to get ready for breakfast." The nurse's aide  
bustled into the room. She jerked the curtains aside, flooding the room  
with light, leaving the bedridden form blinking furiously.

Ignoring Milton's half-serious ˘protests about the lack of privacy, she  
raided the bathroom for a towel and warm, soapy washcloth.

"Rise and shine, Frank." The silent man stared straight ahead as she washed  
his face with a quick efficiency. She fished an electric razor out of the  
bedside table and shaved his stubbly chin. Rifling through the dresser next  
to the wall, she selected clean clothes for the day. She swept the blankets  
back in one smooth movement and proceeded to dress the limp form as if he  
were some overgrown doll.

"Hey, Frank." The old man gave him a nod as he wheeled past. Milton made a  
habit of looking his roommate square in the eye when he talked to him. The  
doctor might claim Frank's brains were totally scrambled, but Milton had  
seen the spark that flickered just below the surface. Especially before he  
got his morning meds. Whatever they gave the poor guy really put him under  
for the rest of the day. Probably for seizures or something, most of the  
younger guys here had head injuries, car wrecks more often that notˆ.

When the aide breezed out of the room, Milton rolled over to Frank's side.

"I swear, boy, a body ought not to be that cheerful in the morning. It  
can't be healthy."

One blink. Milton took that for a yes.

"Remember, how I told you that I didn't like the way they were keeping you  
drugged up?"

Blink.

"Well, my niece has got a friend. . .well, actually, he's family on my  
ex-wife's side. Only met the man once. But that's beside the point, which  
is, if you're still interested, I can have him look into this thing."

Eyes stayed firmly open, like a question. Unsure whether he could really go  
back. Like this. Unsure whether he could trust Milton or the old man's  
friend.

"What I mean to say is, he's not a lawyer or nothing like that. He's a cop  
or some such. It's just that I don't think the doctors are doing right by  
you here. What do you say, want me to call this guy and ask him to look  
into it?"

A pause. Then, slow and sure, a definite blink. Anything had to better than  
this living, lonely death.

================================  
================================

Washington, D. C.

The low roar of conversation filled the restaurant, as Walter Skinner  
paused in the doorway. He still wasn't sure why he was here, Georgeanne's  
call had come out of the blue. Of all of his ex-wife's relatives, he had  
only ever felt at ease with this particular cousin; but they hadn't talked  
in years. Had Sharon even told her about the divorce?

It didn't matter, he appreciated the break from work and from the tension  
that had ruled his life for months.

She saw Skinner first and stood up from the table, giving him a hesitant  
wave. She looked the same, perhaps a little thicker around the middle, but  
neither one of them were exactly young any more.

She remained standing until he joined her. She held out her hand and gave  
him a gentle, yet confident, handshake.

"Walter, I'm so glad you came. I feel silly, really, having called you at all."

"No problem. It's good to get away from the office onceÔ in awhile." The  
waiter interrupted, taking their drink orders, before Skinner could  
continue. "On the phone you said you had a problem. Somehing I could help  
you with?"

"Do you remember Milton Davidson?" He shook his head, no. "There's no  
reason why you should. He's my aunt's ex-husband, you may have met him at  
our wedding. He's the black sheep of the family, in a way. Drank too much  
for years. That, on top of his diabetes, ...well, his health's been  
declining. Lost both legs to the diabetes and he's lived in a nursing home  
for several years."

The waiter brought their drinks and took their order for lunch. Skinner let  
Georgeanne continue, giving her time to spin the story out at her own  
speed.

"I'm probably the only one left who visits Uncle Milton, and I don't get  
out there as often as I should. A few months ago he got a new roommate,  
apparently brain-damaged in a car wreck, tragic story. He's the nephew of  
the hospital administrator, Dr. Paul Miller, but no one, not even his  
uncle, visits him. Not much point, seeing as he can't talk or communicate.  
Except with Milton. Milton's got the notion in his head that this man isn't  
really who they say he is, that he's being held against his will.

"Uncle Milton is convinced that this man told him to try and find out  
what's really going on." She fiddled with her drink for a moment. "It's  
ridiculous, really; thinking that his roommate is communicating with him at  
all. I saw the man when I was out there. He's a vegetable, doesn't even has  
the strength to swallow on his own, they feed him through a tube in his  
stomach."

She stopped, realizing that in her nervousness she was rambling. "Once he  
remembered you, that you worked for the FBI, Milton insisted that I have  
you look into this." She reached down and rummaged through her purse,  
pulling out a paperback book sealed in a plastic bag.

"This is all so melodramatic. Milton took this book, wiped it clean as he  
could and pressed the man's fingerprints onto it. He wants you to check and  
see if they really are the fingerprints of Frank Miller." She paused,   
"I'll be honest with you, Walter. It's not that I really believe Milton's  
story, but I wouldn't have even bothered you if he hadn't been so  
insistent."

Skinner picked up the bag and turned it over in his hands.

Georgeanne reached across the table to take back the book. "Look, I'm  
sorry. I shouldn't have asked. It's silly to expect you to waste government  
resources on Milton's fantasies."

"That's okay," Skinner set the book down on the table. "I can do this on my  
own time, no problem. It might not come to anything, though. Unless Frank  
Miller, or whoever this patient is, has ever been fingerprinted, there  
won't be any record to compare it to."

"Thanks. You don't know how much this means to me. Milton may be a bit  
eccentric, but I don't believe he's delusional. Honestly, I'm not sure what  
to think."

=======================================  
=======================================

 

Lifting the prints off of the book reminded Skinner of his early years in  
the Bureau. It wouldn't hurt him to brush on basic forensic techniques. One  
thing you could say for Milton, he did a really good job of collecting a  
set of prints.

After he scanned the fingerprints into the computer, he waited for the  
database to make a match. He was just taking a sip of coffee when the name  
and picture rolled across the screen. The coffee cup hit the desk and  
sloshed over his desk calendar.

That was impossible.

He sat there stunned for just a minute before he went to work. Pulling open  
his bottom desk drawer, he took out the evidence bag that had sat there for  
months, personal effects the DC police had given him. He shouldn't have  
kept it, but the victim's mother wouldn't take it. Besides, it served  
Skinner as a reminder, to be careful in the choices that he made.

He fumbled around in his briefcase for a pair of latex gloves. After he  
pulled them on, he withdrew the slim leather wallet from the bag and dusted  
it for prints. When he was done, he found that the impossible was  
irrefutable. The prints on the wallet matched the prints on the book that  
matched those on his computer screen.

Working as quickly as he could, Skinner erased the fingerprints from the  
system and stashed the original copy in his briefcase, making sure the book  
they were lifted from was still there. Placing the wallet back in the  
evidence bag, he added it to the stack. Then he began a search for  
information on Dr. Paul Miller.

Half an hour later he sat glaring at his computer. Pretty amazing how an  
unmarried man, whose only sibling died in childhood could have a nephew. He  
made a mental list of men in the Bureau who could be trusted. A short list.

 

========================================  
========================================

The smell hit him as soon as he walked in the front door, that unpleasant  
combination of disinfectant on top of the stale, unmistakable odor of  
urine. Half a dozen grim-faced FBI agents and a pair of paramedics pushing  
a gurney followed close behind him as he made his way to the nurse's  
station. Protocol might call for him to serve the warrant to the  
adminstrator's office first, but Skinner was banking on the element of  
surprise. Secure the patient and his records first, then make the arrests.

The nurse at the desk rose in alarm as the group of dark-suited men and  
women invaded her workstation. The balding man in the front flashed his ID  
at her.

"Ms. Hoffman," Skinner read her name off her name tag. "I'm Assistant  
Director Walter Skinner of the FBI. I have a court order to take custody of  
the patient known to you as Frank Miller and to confiscate all medications  
and medical records pertaining to him. Where can we find Mr. Miller?"

In a panic the nurse tried to stop the agents who were going through the  
charts.

"Ms. Hoffman." Skinner grabbed her attention once again. "Where is Frank  
Miller?"

"Room 213." She pointed down the hall, but the jiggling of the locked med  
room door distracted h›er. "Look, you can't go in there. I need to call Dr.  
Miller. Wait." Skinner blocked her hand as she tried to pick up the phone.

"Don't call the office. We'll make sure that Dr. Miller knows exactly  
what's going on. Rosenthal, Bradley, go apprise the doctor of the  
situation. Ms. Hoffman, please unlock the medication room. I want this  
place turned upside down. You two," he motioned to the paramedics, "come  
with me."

Skinner stopped in the doorway of 213. In the bed closest to the window a  
figure lay staring up at the ceiling. He didn't turn his head at the sound  
of someone entering the room. That didn't matter, Skinner recognized him  
immediately from the profile.

Milton Davidson wheeled down the hall and tried to enter his room, but  
found the doorway blocked by the gurney. "Hey, you two, let me in there."  
The paramedics ignored him, they had their orders. It didn't stop Milton  
from trying to get in on the action. "Walter Skinner, isn't it? I told  
Georgeanne you'd come," he¸ yelled out to Skinner.

Skinner didn't hear the old man, all his attention was focused on the bed.  
He walked over to the patient, making sure that he was in the man's line of  
sight. It really was him. Or what was left of him. He grasped the man's  
head in his hands, looking into his eyes, looking for signs of recognition.

"Agent Mulder, I've come to take you away from here."

Unable to speak, unable to move, tears rolled down Fox Mulder's cheeks.

 

As Skinner watched them load Mulder on the gurney, Bradley came back from  
the adminstrator's office. The agent stared as they prepared Mulder for  
transport. He was shocked. He knew they were gong to find the missing man  
here, but he hadn't expected this. . .this wraith.

"That was awfully fast, Bradley."

The AD's voice snapped him out of his shock. "Sir, Dr. Miller wasn't in his  
office. We caught his secretary on the phone as we walked in. I think she  
may have tipped him off. I called the Alexandria PD to intercept him at his  
home. He'll probably be gone, ‰but I'm heading over there with Rosenthal  
right now."

Skinner gave him a curt nod and started to answer but his cell phone rang.  
"Keep me informed." With a wave he dismissed the man and answered his  
phone.

"Skinner."

"Mr. Skinner, this is Margaret Scully. You left a message on my machine."

"Yes, Mrs. Scully, it's imperative that I get in touch with your daughter  
as soon as possible."

"What's this about? Dana left specific instructions that she did not want  
to hear from anyone at work. After the treatment. . ." She searched for the  
right words. "Mr. Skinner, while Dana has overcome her cancer, she has a  
lot of healing left to do. You gave her a six month leave of absence. She's  
not ready to come back to work yet."

Shit this was hard. Mulder's 'death' had devastated his partner. Her grief  
over his suicide loomed over her, blotting out what should have been her  
joy at conquering her own mortality. Unless. . .with a painful death  
staring her in the face, could she have made her own deal? He didn't want  
to believe it. He couldn't believe it. But she was the one who had  
identified the body. And he knew a little bit about deals made out of  
desperation.

"Mr. Skinner?"

"Um. . .just give your daughter a message. Tell her that I need to speak  
with her. In person. This is something I can't discuss over the phone.'

"I'll relay the message." Her tone was cold, she clearly didn't want to be  
Skinner's go-between. "Good-bye, Mr. Skinner."

Skinner walked alongside as they wheeled Mulder out to the ambulance. It  
was an almost physical pain to watch him lying there, cut off from the  
world. He had never known anyone as alone as this man. Loneliness was  
something Walter Skinner could definitely relate to.

==========================================  
===========================================

When Elizabeth Mulder had begun her wait, the sunshine had streamed through  
the living room windows. She was chilled now in the growing shadows and  
still the phone hadn't rung.

Don't talk t"o anyone about your son. He had been quite specific on that .  
Not if you want him to live.

She pulled the afghan off the back of the couch and drew it around her.  
They hadn't called yet. She sat here in the dark and waited, afraid to  
move. What must Fox think of her? Could he think of her? They wouldn't let  
her go to him, but they'd showed her a picture, so pale, like an invalid,  
lying in that bed. Nothing permanent so far, he'd promised her, as long as  
she cooperated.

She hated herself. Now she knew what Bill must have gone through. Use the  
daughter to manipulate the father, the son to coerce the mother. As a  
family, the Mulders were a farce.

She jumped when the phone finally rang.

"Hello."

"Mrs. Mulder, this Assistant Director Walter Skinner, with the FBI."

"Yes, we met at the...." She couldn't bring herself to say it. The funeral.  
Whose ashes had she scattered in his name?

Skinner mistook her silence for grief and was unsure how to breach it.  
Elizabeth Mulder saved him the trouble.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Skinner?"

"Mrs. Mulder, there has been a horrible mistake. Recently we discovered  
that the man we believed to be your son, the man found dead in his  
apartment, was not Fox."

"What are you saying?"

"Your son is alive. We found him in a Virginia convalescent home. He's  
being transferred to Georgetown University Medical Center.'

"I don't believe you."

"Mrs. Mulder, let me assure you that there is no mistake." At least not  
this time. "Fox Mulder is alive."

"Leave me alone, Mr. Skinner."

 

He stood there at the door of the nursing home staring at the silent phone  
in his hand. She'd hung up. How could she hang up?

"Mr. Skinner, we're ready to go here."

Glancing at the still figure on the gurney, a chill went down his spine.  
How much had Mulder overheard? He made a quick decision, tossing his keys  
to the agent nearest him. "Follow us in my car. I'm going to ride in the  
ambulance."

======================  
======================

There was an undercurrent of excitement and confusion in the J. Edgar  
Hoover Building. The whispers faded whenever they saw Skinner coming, but  
he still caught enough of it, Spooky Mulder back from the dead. The tone of  
the conversations shifted from awe and fear to skepticism. Some actually  
believed that Mulder had faked his own death to get out of trouble, but no  
one could name exactly what that trouble might have been. Skinner did  
notice that Bradley and Rosenthal and the other agents who'd gone with him  
stayed out of that line of speculation. No one who had seen Mulder at that  
nursing home could possibly believe he was there by choice.

It was almost time for the his meeting with Mulder's doctor when Kimberly  
let him know he had a visitor.

"Tell him to come back, I'm on my way out." As he hung up the phone, Dana  
Scully forced her way into his office. The fact that she had chosen to come  
in didn't surprise him, she had a finely honed sense of duty. The fact that  
she came dressed casually, in a sweater and slacks, underscored her  
defiance at being asked to come at all. She radiated cold fury at his  
intrusion on her private life.

"Sir, you told my mother that you needed to speak with me urgently."

"Yes, Agent Scully, sit down." He plunged right in. "Agent Scully, I've  
asked you here today to go over your report on Agent Mulder's death."

That chipped the ice a little, but she composed herself quickly before  
replying. "I have nothing to add to that report."

"According to the police report you barely glanced at the body. I've just  
reviewed the crime scene photos. The position of the body was poor and  
between the wound and the blood that obscured his features, how certain are  
you that the man found in that apartment was, in fact, Fox Mulder?"

There was no hiding her distress now. "Those were the clothes he had been  
wearing earlier in the evening. The hair was..." Her voice broke. "Why are  
you asking me this now? The autopsy confirmed my identification."

¯It's recently come to my attention that neither the pathologist who  
performed the autopsy, nor the diener who assisted him, can be located.  
They have both apparently vanished. The body, as you know, was cremated.  
There is no way to verify the autopsy report. I ask you again, how did you  
know that the dead man was your partner?"

She jerked out of the chair as if to leave, but simply stood there, her  
shoulders shaking in repressed grief. When she finally continued her voice  
was soft, barely audible.

"I was just so afraid. Afraid of not being able to work any longer. Afraid  
that if I continued to work, my weakness would put Mulder's life at risk."  
She turned toward face him. "I was afraid to die without knowing the  
reasons why and Michael Kritschgau gave me those reasons. But Mulder kept  
pushing, you know how he was. So I told him. I told him that it was all his  
fault. That they were killing me so he would believe.

"I'd always wondered if there was any limit to his capacity to draw down  
the guilt of t˛he world on his shoulders and keep on going. I pushed until I  
found his limit. I wanted him to live for the both of us. I thought...I  
believed that if I left him with the answers, if I found the truth he was  
searched so hard for, that it might ease, somewhat, the pain of losing me."

"But now he's dead and you're alive."

"Why are you asking me about this?" Her face was a portrait of agony.

"Agent Scully, yesterday evening I accompanied a team of FBI agents who  
rescued a man housed in a Virginia convalescent home under the name Frank  
Miller. This man has been drugged and held against his will for the past  
five months. This man is Fox Mulder."

"No." She collapsed in to the chair beside her. "No." It was all she could  
manage.

She looked pale and sick, as if in the space of the past minute Mulder's  
return to life had drawn her back down to the brink of death. Skinner was  
convinced of her innocence. They were all pawns in a game he was determined  
to figure out. When he continued his voice was gentle.

"Scully, I was just on my way to the hospital to check on his condition.  
Why don't you come with me?"

====================  
End part 1

 

Part 2

When he awoke it felt like he was in a coffin. In this tiny space the  
ceiling was only inches from his nose. He still couldn't move, couldn't  
talk, he couldn't get out. Help! I'm alive in here! In the onrush of panic  
he felt his heart begin to race.

"It's all right, Mr. Mulder, you're having a scan done. Just lie still,  
we're almost done." The technician droned on, her exact words less  
important than the fact that she knew his name. She knew who he really was.  
He was in the hospital. Now he remembered, Skinner had found him.

"Unnh." He surprised himself. He could talk. Not very eloquent, but his  
first word in months.

His initial joy at making himself heard dwindled as they wheeled him back  
to his room. The ceiling whisked by, images tickled at his peripheral  
vision, just out of range. He would give anything to be able to turn his  
head and‰ look.

=====================

Playing hostess to this man was the most reprehensible thing Elizabeth had  
ever done. How had she ever thought him attractive? Once she had found his  
open expression of emotion refreshing, so unlike her husband. At first  
Bill's aloof nature had seemed enigmatic, like a mystery for her to solve.  
Eventually she discovered that the only real mystery was how a man could  
turn so completely away from his wife and children. So she had turned to  
this man, a colleague who openly admired her, at least when they were  
alone. Now as he casually brushed his hand along her cheek she steeled  
herself not to shudder.

"There can be no more delays. What you've given us is incomplete. You  
helped Bill compile the data, either find the rest of the records or detail  
what you remember of the information." He lit another cigarette, taking a  
long and casual drag from it. "Whatever happened to your enthusiasm? Before  
Fox was born you were the Project's greatest proponent."

"Before Fox was born, I had no idea what the goal of the Project really was."

"You knew enough. You knew that mankind stood on the threshold of a new  
day, and you wholeheartedly committed yourself to that plan."

Her response was cut off by the ringing of the phone. One glance at her  
visitor reminded her to be careful.

"Hello."

"Mrs. Mulder."

Oh God, not Walter Skinner. Not now. "Mr. Skinner, I told you not to call  
me again." She slammed the receiver down, hard.

 

Skinner jerked the phone back from his ear. Something was definitely not  
right with that woman, something other than grief. Scully sat still and  
silent beside him. She hadn't uttered a word since they'd left the office.  
He kept expecting her to ask some questions, to at least inquire about  
Mulder's condition. But to inquire about his health, she would have to  
first believe that he was really alive.

Agent Bradley waited for them at the entrance to the hospital. He nodded to  
Scully, but directed his comments to Skinner.

"Sir, Dr. Yode  
r left a message that he would be delayed about thirty more  
minutes, something about the running a few more confirmatory tests on  
whatever it was they giving Mulder in the home. He also said to remind you  
that he needs to get in contact with Mulder's next of kin, to okay some  
treatment decisions."

"Agent Scully, I need your help with this."

"Sir?"

"In lieu of his mother, you are still listed as Mulder's emergency  
contact." He didn't give her time to protest. "Bradley, tell Dr. Yoder  
we'll meet him in Agent's Mulder's room whenever he's ready. Scully, come  
with me."

She didn't protest. The whole experience was surreal. This couldn't be  
happening. Mulder was dead. She had seen the body. She had identified the  
body. But if he wasn't dead... All these months and she hadn't even tried  
to look for him. She couldn't bring herself to consider her betrayal.

They came to a halt just outside a doorway flanked by two agents she  
vaguely knew. Both men stepped aside at their approach. Scully followed  
Skinner into t‚he room, drawn along in his wake with no momentum of her own.

The room was quiet except for the gentle rhythm of the pump which fed the  
steady flow of nutrients into the figure on the bed. His eyes were open.  
Skinner left Scully standing in the doorway and walked straight to the bed,  
addressing him as he approached.

"Mulder, I've brought someone to see you." He reached over and turned  
Mulder's head in Scully's direction.

Mulder's eyes grew wide in recognition. Forgetting for the moment that he  
couldn't talk, he tried to call out to her, to say her name. All that came  
out was a low moan.

Scully backed against the wall, shaking her head from side to side. Bolting  
out of the room she fled down the hall in a panic.

Skinner was left standing there, unsure what to do next, uncertain which of  
them needed him the most. Mulder's eyes, more expressive today, clearly  
echoed distress over his partner's reaction. Skinner took that as a cue.

"Look, I don't know what you remember about˜ the day you 'died.' Hell, I  
can't even imagine what you've been through for the past five months. But  
the day you disappeared, Scully identified a body in your apartment. Your  
body. For the past five months she's been certain that you were dead."

Mulder's brow furrowed slightly in... concern? Surprise? Doubt? Skinner  
watched as the man turned his head almost imperceptibly toward the door.

"Fine. I'll go after her. and make sure she's all right. When I get back,  
Dr. Yoder wants to go over your test results and medical records. Are you  
up to that?." How had Milton said he communicated with Mulder? "Give me a  
blink if that's okay."

Blink. Mulder's face definitely reflected worry now, and some stronger  
emotion. Anger perhaps.

Skinner found Scully in the waiting room, her head bowed down and held  
between her hands.

"Agent Scully."

She looked up, her face ravaged by grief and guilt. "What have I done?"

"Nothing. You haven't done anything, Agent Scully, but believe a carefully  
crafted plot. A plot aimed specifically at destroying your trust in Mulder  
and the X-Files at a time in your life when you were afraid and vulnerable.  
They manipulated you and told you what you wanted to believe. They gave you  
a rational, a scientific explanation for the X-Files."

She started to reply, but he cut her off. "Before you say anything, just  
here me out. Michael Kritschgau, the Department of Defense employee who  
convinced you of Mulder's manipulation, disappeared at the same time that  
you went into the hospital for treatment. They played upon your weakness to  
shut down the X-Files once and for all.

"But there's something else at work here. Why go to all the trouble to  
stage an apparent suicide and then hold the 'victim' in storage? It doesn't  
add up. Something's going on, Scully, and Fox Mulder is the key. The rest  
of us are just being pulled along behind him."

He glanced at his watch. "Dr. Yoder should be here in ten minutes and we  
can begin to sort this all out. But right now there's a man in ﬁthere who's  
worried about you. Make your peace with Agent Mulder."

 

At the sound of someone entering the room, Mulder tried to turn his head  
toward the door. Beyond his line of sight, Scully stood there, her eyes  
red-rimmed. She watched him for a minute, taking in his emaciated form.  
Silently she walked over to the bed and reached out a hand to touch his  
face. It was warm and solid. Real. He was real.

He moved his head to the side slightly, trapping her hand between his cheek  
and the pillow. Now that he had a good view of her, he looked her over,  
searching for signs of her own illness. Hazel eyes asked the question.

She understood. "I'm fine, Mulder. A combination of computer-assisted laser  
surgery and gene-therapy. The cancer's gone."

His relief was obvious and immediate.

"But what happened to you? Oh Mulder, I believed you were dead. I thought I  
drove you to..."

He moaned trying to tell her that it wasn't her fault.

"What have they done to you?" Her voice dropped to a whisper.

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to let her know how grateful he was that  
she here, alive and healthy. For the first time in months, he wanted to  
live.

======================

Linus Yoder took the time to go over a few details in his patient's chart  
one more time before he began. As he looked up, he caught a glimpse of Fox  
Mulder's eyes, dark and intense, as if they were drilling into his soul for  
answers. Unfortunately the answers he had to give only raised more  
questions.

"Yesterday evening, when we admitted Mr. Mulder into this hospital, he was  
completely unable to communicate. Voluntary muscle response was almost  
completely absent. Because of his inability to swallow, a gastrostomy had  
been performed. That's a feeding tube surgically implanted in the  
abdomen," he added at AD Skinner's questioning glance.

"The medical records that accompanied Agent Mulder, under the name of Frank  
Miller, indicated that the patient had suffered a debilitating head injury  
ten months before his admission. Extensive testing done by Dr. Harriman,  
the consulting neurologist, revealed no signs or symptoms to corroborate  
that diagnosis. The only medication he was receiving was phenobarbital,  
supposedly to control seizures brought on the head trauma. The FBI labs  
verified that the medication seized at the nursing home was, indeed,  
phenobarb. The serum phenobarb levels in the toxicology screen confirmed  
that the patient had been regularly receiving this drug. In the absence of  
any apparent head injury, it is my belief that this medication was being  
used to keep Agent Mulder sedated. That does not, however, explain his  
paralysis.

"What put us on the right track was the feeding tube. The only other  
substance he received on a regular basis was a specially formulated  
nutritional solution. We had that analyzed and found something really  
strange. An anomalous substance was being pumped into the gastrostomy tube.  
Definitely not an FDA-approved vitamin supplement. It appears to be a  
synthetic neuromuscular blocking agent, similar to those derived from  
curare, but able to somehow it selectively targeted the voluntary muscles  
and didn't interfere with the diaphragm or inhibit breathing."

"If this is a curarifrom muscle relaxant, the symptoms should dissipate  
rather rapidly. When was his last dose?" Scully asked. Back in the familiar  
territory of medicine, Skinner noticed that Scully seemed more in control  
of her emotions.

"That solution was discontinued before they transported him to the  
hospital, about eighteen hours ago. There's been some improvement in his  
condition, but keep in mind that this whole incident has several unique  
factors." That was an understatement, the entire situation was bizarre and  
unsettling. "This drug is unlike any others in it's class, we have no way  
of knowing exactly what it's half-life is or how long it will take to leave  
his system completely. Similar medications are always given by injection,  
not ingested. And they're only used for brief periods of time, usually to  
immobilize a patient during surgery. There's no way to tell what the  
residual affects of long-term use may be."

"But there's also nothing to indicate that he won't make a full recovery."  
Skinner was trying hard to make sense of the situation. Surely they  
wouldn't have taken the time and effort to keep Mulder safely tucked away,  
without certain assurances for his ultimate well-being.

"We're going to proceed with his care plan, with the goal of a full  
recovery. But it wouldn't be honest of me not to cover the possible  
negative outcomes. He was getting an awful lot of this stuff, apparently  
for months. There could be residual muscle weakness, lingering paralysis.  
I'm just guessing here. To tell you the truth, I don't know what to  
expect."

"What about physical therapy?" Mulder's frailty worried Scully. "It's going  
to take an extensive program to rebuild his strength."

"Yes, it will, and we'll start on that on a limited basis as soon as he is  
able. We've already begun tapering off his phenobarbital, immediate  
cessation of barbiturates would cause severe withdrawal symptoms, something  
that he's not physically prepared to deal with at this time. If I can get  
your permission, I'd like to schedule a surgical consult in the next few  
days to see about removing the gastrostomy tube as soon as he's able to  
swallow, hopefully within the next couple of days."

The conference continued around him while Mulder raged. Talk to me, damn  
it. I'm right here in front of you. He groaned in frustration, trying to  
insert himself in the conversation. Scully just patted his hand, trying to  
reassure him, and turned back to what Dr. Yoder was saying.

===========================  
===========================

She put the pen down and looked over what she had written. After her  
'miraculous' recovery from the stroke, Elizabeth found herself recalling  
details of events that she thought long forgotten. That particular aspect  
of her healing she had kept to herself. She'd hoped that she could convince  
them that she no longer remembered her work. But now that Fox's life  
depended on her memory, she dredged every detail no matter how  
insignificant it seemed. Of course they'd given her no idea which aspect of  
the project was being revived. Sometimes secrecy became a disease, a cancer  
eating away at those who maintained it. The lack of trust in the consortium  
eroded the bonds that had held co-conspirators together.

That was no longer her problem. All that mattered was freeing her son from  
the threats they held over him. It was four days since Walter Skinner had  
last tried to reason with her, a full week since Fox had been rescued from  
his prison. All that was left for her to write out was the aborted Russian  
project, something Bill had described to her as a wild goose chase. Maybe  
now her son could really be free from their threat.

End part 2

==========

=====================  
Part 3

Skinner watched as the thin man hobbled slowly across the room, first  
pushing the walker out in front of him and then dragging each foot after  
it. All the while the physical therapist hovered by his side keeping up a  
steady barrage of encouragement.

"That's great, Mr. Mulder. Better than yesterday. Only five feet more. You  
can do it."

She might as well have saved her breath. Her patient drew all the  
motivation he needed from within. During the past two weeks his relief at  
being rescued had turned to frustration with the continued weakness of his  
body and rage at the men who had put him here. Not that he expressed that  
much in words. He'd been strangely quiet, almost as if he had gotten out of  
the habit of speaking. As stingy as Mulder had become with his words, his  
moods and emotions were telegraphed more than ever on his face.

He hadn't been much help to the team investigating his disappearance, his  
written statement brief and lacking in details. He remembered being alone  
at home, watching television. The next thing he remembered was waking up in  
a nursing home completely unable to move. It was a cold document, devoid of  
emotion. There was no mention of his distress over the progress of Scully's  
disease. Not a hint of her rejection of everything he believed in. Facts  
without cause, acts without motive. Mulder was barely able to cope with  
all that had happened, his mind wouldn't let him explore the _why_ just  
yet.

Skinner kept expecting him to ask about the source of Scully's cure, but he  
was glad the topic hadn't come up. The truth was, he wasn't sure if Scully  
had stumbled across the innovative treatment on her own or if it had been  
conveniently placed at her disposal. Was it payment for Skinner's  
clandestine chores or a trade-off for Mulder? Skinner didn't know for sure,  
and he wasn't sure if he really wanted to know.

Mulder reached the end of the session and sat down heavily in the  
wheelchair. He looked up at Skinner, acknowledging his presence for the  
first time.

"Sir."

"Agent Mulder." He turned to the orderly waiting to pick up his patient.  
"I'll take him back to¯ his room."

They passed through the hallways, each man lost in his own thoughts. Two  
agents trailed behind them, shadowy reminders that Mulder might still be in  
danger. When they reached his room, Mulder waved off any assistance and  
slowly levered himself out of the chair and onto the edge of the bed. His  
every movement was slow and exact, no motion wasted. Everything he did was  
steeped in purpose and Skinner was afraid that purpose was revenge. Which  
brought him to one of the reasons he was there.

"Agent Mulder, there has been a new development in your case. Last night  
Paul Miller's car was found at the bottom of a ravine in West Virginia.  
Apparently it crashed and burned two weeks ago. The remains inside have  
been positively identified as those of Dr. Miller.

Mulder threw him a look, as if to say 'What else did you expect.' Skinner  
continued.

"The investigation is still ongoing. I have to ask, do you have any idea  
what they wanted? Were you interrogated? Did they give you any  
indication--"

"No." Mulder's anger bubbled to the surface, but he still couldn't talk  
about it. He stretched out on the bed, turning his back on more questions.  
"If you don't mind, I'm tired."

"There's one other thing. I understand they're releasing you in a few days.  
Where did you plan to go?"

Mulder closed his eyes, too exhausted to deal with one more problem.  
Someone else now lived in apartment 42 and he had no where to go. His  
mother didn't answer her phone and she hadn't returned his messages.  
Whenever Scully came to see him, the meeting was tense, there was so much  
left unsaid between the two of them. She had a chance for a new life now, a  
safer one free of the X-Files. He couldn't answer Skinner's question  
because he honestly had no idea what he was going to do.

"I thought that might be a problem so I've already arranged a safe house  
for you." Mulder protested more out of habit than conviction.

"Is that absolutely necessary?"

"Whoever's behind this," he gestured at the wheelchair, "can't be too happy  
to have their plans interrupted."

"Is that your professional assessment or is there something you're not  
telling me?" He knew about Skinner's bargain for Scully's recovery, but how  
far would his boss have gone? Would he have traded one partner for the  
other?

"I don't _know_anything. Whether you believe it or not, I've been  
manipulated in this situation the same as you and Scully. But I'm through  
playing their games." Games in which the other man held all the cards and  
kept Skinner in the dark. That was over. All deals were off now. "It stops  
here. If they want you they'll have to come through me."

"Fine." Resigned but still distrustful, he had no where else to go.

============  
Unknown location  
New York

Sometimes he wished that he had never started smoking. But the act of  
lighting up gave him a sense of ritual, a focus of concentration that  
allowed him the chance to collect his thoughts and maintain control. And  
control was all-important. They had called him to New York on the spur of  
the moment, hoping, perhaps, to catch him at a vulnerable time. He ignored  
their scrutiny, he had nothing to hide. The consortium's main goal,  
retrieval of data on the early days of the Russian project, had been a  
success. Now that Elizabeth had given him all that she knew, Skinner's  
rescue of her son didn't matter.

"You lost Agent Mulder." That fat prick never stated anything that wasn't  
obvious.

"On the contrary, " He took a long slow drag on the cigarette and stared  
until the other man looked away, "I know exactly where he is."

"As do we." The English member of the group deserved watching. Of them all,  
he was smooth and dangerous. "We no longer need to hold the son in order to  
gain his mother's cooperation. Her memories about the Russian project have  
been remarkably stimulated. There are, in fact, several details in her  
report that will help us in rebuilding the black cancer program."

The smoker started to relax, but the Englishman wasn't through yet. "It  
might surprise you to find that we've uncovered a new source of information  
in that regard. Information that sheds new light on Fox Mulder's potential  
benefit to the program." He turned to his valet, "Tell him to come in now."

Who could he be talking about? Mulder had run into dead ends in his  
investigation of the black cancer. The Russian agent had been one step  
ahead of them all, destroying the evidence before Mulder could find it or  
the consortium hide it. The man had murdered all the test subjects,  
destroying the oily 'worms' that had inhabited them. Their source for more  
of the creatures had dried up. He hid his surprise as the young man entered  
the room.

"I believe you already know Alex Krycek. He was one of yours for a while,  
wasn't he?"

Krycek sauntered into the room, acting the part of an equal to those  
present, not at all what one might expect from a fugitive from justice. Or  
from a man who had recently suffered such a debilitating injury. The rumors  
about the prosthetic limb were true.

"Mr. Krycek." He casually flicked the ash from his cigarette. "My  
condolences on the loss of your arm."

A brief cloud passed over Krycek's face, but was just as quickly hidden.  
So, the boy was still touchy on that issue.

"Mr. Krycek has provided us with information on the nature of the Russian  
anti-serum from the Tunguska research project. He's also given us the name  
of an accessible subject, a carrier from whom we can extract samples of the  
organism. Someone who has already survived the initial stages of the  
process. It seems the Russians were able to accommodate Mr. Mulder into  
their program after all."

That was a surprise. "Surely you're not depending on the word of this man.  
A man utterly lacking in honor."

Krycek bristled at his words, but his patron waved him off. "I'm not  
totally without resources of my own. Mr. Mulder recently underwent  
extensive medical testing. Tests that confirm the presence of the black  
cancer." He smiled broadly.

"And Agent Scully didn't find anything suspicious in those results?"

"She never saw them. The results were switched before she or the attending  
physician got a look at them. With the addition of the Russian research  
data and formulas and a living test subject, we are ready to begin the  
program once again. When you return to Washington we want you to retrieve  
Agent Mulder. And this time, see to it personally."

=========================

Skinner sat in his car debating whether to confront Mulder's mother tonight  
or wait until morning. He'd already been there for half an hour, trying to  
decide what to say to the woman. Her denial of her son's existence was  
incomprehensible.

He couldn't help but compare Margaret Scully and Elizabeth Mulder. Scully's  
grief over Mulder's death had nearly torn her apart and the physical ordeal  
of her cancer treatment had been grueling. Through it all her mother had  
been her anchor, the link to life that kept her grounded and sane. Now her  
partner faced the aftermath of physical and mental pain almost more than he  
could bear. If anyone ever needed a link to sanity now, it was Scully's  
partner, a man almost totally without friends or family. In that moment he  
made his decision and got out of the car.

When Elizabeth Mulder answered the door she showed no surprise at seeing  
Walter Skinner standing there. Instead, she appeared irritated or, maybe  
afraid, an attitude at odds with her cheerful greeting.

"Mr. Skinner, what an unexpected pleasure."

"Is it?"

"We haven't had a chance to talk since Fox's memorial service. It was so  
nice to see his friends and colleagues there, I'm sure that's what he would  
have wanted." She rattled on like a confused and lonely mother, but her  
face was sane and serious. "Why don't you come into the kitchen, I was just  
about to make some tea."

He followed her through the house, watching curiously as the she picked up  
a notepad and pen along the way.

_From the rear of the truck Frohike leaned over the seat and pinned Mulder's  
shoulders down while Skinner and Scully freed Elizabeth from his grasp.  
Frohike helped Scully lay her patient to the rear of the truck where she  
had room to work._

As soon as he felt them drag his mother away Mulder rose off of the back  
seat, screaming. Skinner practically had to sit on him to keep him down.  
Mulder's screams faded into moans as he rocked back and forth, feeling lost  
and abandoned.

Skinner drew the younger man close to him, offering him what clumsy comfort  
that he could and keeping him out of Scully's way. As he held him, Skinner  
began to wonder about the amount of blood that covered Mulder's clothes.  
Head wounds bleed profusely, but this looked like too much. As gently as he  
could, he checked the agent for injuries. Pulling up Mulder's shirt he  
found the wound to his side.

"Langly, do you know where you're going." The blond was driving like a madman.

"Nearest hospital's about five miles away."

Keeping one arm around Mulder, Skinner drew out his cell phone to call in  
the emergency. He identified himself and told them to expect two gun shot  
victims.

"Two?" Scully looked up.

"In his side. Looks like the round passed through her and into him." Scully  
looked stricken, torn between helping her partner or his mother. "I'm  
applying pressure to slow down the bleeding," Skinner reassured her. Even  
though her partner was injured, Scully couldn't pause in working on her  
patient. Every second was crucial, if she was going to save this woman.

Mulder's moans faded into silence. Skinner turned the injured man's face  
toward him, afraid that he had lapsed into unconsciousness, but Mulder's  
eyes were open.

"Agent Mulder, we're almost there." Mulder didn't respond, but stared  
straight ahead, unfocused, traumatized by one tragedy too many.

&gt;From the back of the truck Scully's voice barked out orders to Frohike as  
he tried to help. Skinner found himself momentarily disoriented. The  
unmistakable oily scent of the military vehicle, the smell of blood, the  
cries of the wounded, and the sharp tang of fear pulled him back. If he let  
himself drift, he could almost believe that he was back in Vietnam,  
evacuating injured comrades from the combat zone. He could almost here  
ghostly voices calling out, 'Medic. We need a medic over here.' But this  
wasn't Vietnam, it was Virginia and these weren't soldiers brought down by  
enemy fire, but American citizens, shot down by agents of their own  
government. Skinner wanted to vent his anger. He wanted revenge. But here  
and now he needed to take charge and shove the frustration down. That was  
story of his life, push away the emotions and buckle down to the task at  
hand. Maybe now that his chief opponent was dead, maybe there could be  
peace for awhile, at least for himself. He wondered if Fox Mulder would  
ever be at peace again.

====

The bitter waiting room coffee sat uneasily on Skinner's stomach. Frohike,  
Byers, and Langly took off as soon as they unloaded their passengers and  
Skinner couldn't blame them. He and Scully might be able to placate the  
local law enforcement with their credentials, but Mulder's friends would  
have faced some difficult questions. Half an hour after their arrival, the  
doctor treating Elizabeth Mulder pronounced her dead. Now they waited for  
news on Mulder's condition. He glanced at Scully. She sat on the vinyl  
couch, he head tilted back and her eyes closed. He doubted if she was  
sleeping.

 

A doctor emerged from the treatment area, scanning the name on the chart in  
front of him. "I'm Dr. Mecklin. Are you the FBI agents that brought in Fox  
Mulder.?" Both Skinner and Scully nodded and introduced themselves.

"The bullet entered his chest, cracked a rib, was deflected and passed out  
his side. He's going to be in considerable pain, but the injury isn't too  
serious. It looks like his nose is broken. We've cleaned up the abrasions  
on his face and arm and I've started him on antibiotics as a precaution.  
Those injuries were all minor, but stand a pretty good chance of  
infection." He eyed them suspiciously before he continued.

"Both his wrists are cut, from handcuffs by the look of them, and there are  
a number of bruises...Was this man a suspect in your custody?"

Skinner eyes met Scully's and he gave her a nod, permission to respond.

"No, he's my partner. This is a rather complicated situation. Agent Mulder  
and his mother were...kidnapped a short time ago. In their escape tonight,  
they were shot."

"His mother. That would be the second gunshot patient they brought in. Dr.  
Reynolds took her in Trauma Room 3."

"That's right"

"Do you want me to check on her progress for you?"

"No, that's okay." Mecklin seemed surprised at her answer. "She's dead,  
massive head trauma." Scully explained.

"I see." That explained a lot. "Mr. Mulder's condition is stable and we're  
moving him up to his room now. To tell you the truth, I'm a little worried  
about his mental status. Right now he's conscious but non-responsive. Was  
he present when his mother was shot?"

"They were sitting next to each other. We believe the bullet passed through  
Mrs. Mulder and into him."

Mecklin scribbled a note in the chart before he continued. "What I want to  
do is keep him sedated for a day or two, give him time to gain some ground  
on his physical recovery so he'll have a bit more strength to deal with the  
his mother's death."

"It's a little more complicated than that. You need to get his recent  
medical records. This is the third time Mulder's been held against his will  
in a little over a year. This is also the third time he's had a close  
family member disappear or die violently while he was helpless to prevent  
it."

She related to Dr. Mecklin the bizarre tale of Fox Mulder's life. Skinner  
stayˆed in the background, churning over the events of the past few  
months.He felt freer now the Cancerman was dead. But he also ached for  
Mulder. The agent's life had been hell on earth, and from the amount of  
guilt his mother carried, the tragedy had started early.

He vowed to himself that whatever it took, he would help Mulder through  
this. The truth was, he needed the man more than ever. Now that his  
long-time nemesis was dead, he wasn't even sure what the face of the enemy  
looked like any more. They could run circles around him and without  
Mulder's knack for sticking his nose into their business he didn't even  
have an idea of where to start looking.

===========

The next afternoon Skinner found Scully right where he had left her,  
sitting in a chair in Mulder's room. At least she'd found time to go home  
and shower. She looked up as he came in.

"How's he doing?"

"Physically, he's doing okay,"

"And mentally?"

"We don't know yet. Mecklin's going to hold off on sedation right now and  
wait and see ˙how he does when he wakes up. What about you? Did you find  
anything?" She sounded more polite that hopeful.

"About what you'd expect. By the time I got a judge to issue a warrant and  
assembled the team to serve it, they had the place pretty well sanitized.  
No sign of activity of any kind, illegal or otherwise." He lowered his  
voice but the outrage seethed in every word. "How did he keep at it for all  
those years? Every time the two of you ever came close to the truth, they  
jerked it all out from under him."

Skinner and Scully silently watched the sleeping man for a while, each one  
of them lost in private thought.

"Agent Scully, how much do you know about Mulder's mother?"

"What do you mean?"

"When the smoking man lay dying, he said something to me, something that  
led me to believe that Elizabeth Mulder might have been....intimately  
familiar with him. Do you believe that she knew anything about him and his  
activities?"

Scully collected her thoughts before she answered, weighing the hints and  
evidence she'd accumulated over the years. "I know Mulder suspected  
something. After he went to Goldstein to recover his memories, he believed  
that he was on the verge remembering something important. I honestly don't  
know what that might have been. Things deteriorated rapidly after that. I  
did get the sense that she had done something she wasn't proud of."

"She's not alone in that, Agent Scully."

===========

 

Walter Skinner slammed his hand into the call button, summoning the  
elevator. Goddammit. For a a solid week Mulder had vegetated in that  
hospital bed, not speaking to anyone. Not catatonic, Scully had assured  
him, but not ready to deal with the world just yet. He'd dropped by to  
check on him this afternoon, but he finally had to get out of there. The  
silent figure on the bed reminded him too much of the man he'd pulled out  
of a nursing home a month ago.

Now the psychiatrist in charge of Mulder's recovery was hinting at the  
likelihood of long-term inpatient care and Mecklin agreed with herˇ. After  
all the tragedy and persecution Mulder had endured, this latest loss had  
finally proved too much for him. He'd given up.

When the door opened he started to step in and, lost in thought, he nearly  
ran right into Scully.

"Sir?"

"Sorry." Although he hid it well, he was upset and Scully knew him well  
enough to see it.

"What is it. Has there been any change?"

"No. Nothing like that." No change at all. "Agent Scully, Dr. Mecklin's  
going to talk to you about long-range plans. Mulder's not eating and the  
night staff reports that his sleep has been disturbed every night."

"I know. Mecklin called me at home just before I left." Scully looked torn,  
as if she was really considering the option. "He's got a point. Mulder  
never really recovered from the muscular weakness that resulted from his  
medications at Green Meadows. Without proper rest and nutrition that  
recovery will be slowed, maybe permanently impaired. But..."

"But sedating him into oblivion and force feeding would be a little too  
much like recreating that experience."

"Exactly. How do they expect him to recover when they put him through that  
all over again?"

"You're preaching to the choir, Agent Scully. I've got to get back to the  
office. Call me and let me know what you decide."

 

The television droned on in the background. Mulder wasn't really listening  
to it, but he knew it was there. For the first time in days he noticed  
things. The lingering pain in his side. The nurses laughing in the hall.  
The dust motes drifting in the shaft of light by his bed. Skinner coming  
and going. Mostly, he noticed how much he wanted to fade away again.

Without turning to look, he knew when Scully came into the room. The  
distinctive click of her footsteps made its way from the door to the side  
of the bed. She stood there, waiting. His thoughts drifted. The scrape of  
the chair's legs as she pulled it close to the bed brought him back to the  
here-and-now. How long had she been standing there?

"Mulder." When he didn't answer she brushed his arm lightly with her  
fingertips, a tactile connection to the world. "Mulder, you need to talk  
about it. Your mother wouldn't want you to shut yourself off like this."

His mother. The woman who'd apologized for the genetic manipulation of her  
children, saying it was for their good. Who'd bargained away five months of  
his life, while she dredged up his father's dirty little secrets for her  
lover and his friends. The memories came, unwanted. He tamped down his  
anger, trying to reclaim the calm of nothingness. Too late. Scully must  
have seen some change, some brief spark in his stony expression.

"Tell me about it. What what happened to you and your mother in there?"

"You want to hear about my mother." The words were soft, almost a whisper.  
"She used me, Scully. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't even know what  
I am."

"Mulder, you're not making any sense."

"Sense. Where is there any sense, any meaning, in manipulating a fetus  
before it's born?" His voice rose steadily. If he could hate her, then  
maybe it wouldn't hurt so bad. "She let them 'improve' her babies for the  
betterment of all mankind. And when they asked her to scrape up the  
remnants of my father's work, to find the hidden documents he thought might  
protect us, she drug her feet. Five months, Scully. She left me rotting in  
that nursing for home for five months trying to make a better deal with  
them. She confessed it all to me."

He was yelling now, almost screaming at her. She started to grab the call  
button to get the nurse, but he snatched her wrist in a painful grip.

"She worked for them. Kritschgau was right, after all. My whole life was a  
fabrication. What were they trying to do? God, Scully, what did they do to  
me?"

He released her hand and wrapped his arms around his chest, his eyes  
squeezed tight as he lost the battle for control and dissolved into  
wrenching sobs. Scully summoned the nurse. Soon he felt the sharpness of  
his pain ease somewhat, as the sedative began to course through him.‡

"She loved me, Scully. I want to hate her, but I can't. I miss her so  
much." Limp and drained, he sunk back into the pillows and let sleep him  
carry away.

===========

Three figures made their way through the halls of Green Meadows  
Convalescent Home. Mulder's steps were careful and slow, Scully and Skinner  
adjusted their pace to his. Mulder had surprised them by admitting that he  
needed help. He took the anti-depressants, faithfully kept his physical  
therapy appointments, and met regularly with his therapist. He wasn't ready  
to come back to work yet, but now it looked like that day would eventually  
arrive.

Skinner had been dubious when Mulder insisted that the needed to come back  
to Green Meadows. But the therapist approved, Scully agreed, so here they  
were. Most of the staff overlooked them, assuming they were relatives come  
to visit an uncle or grandmother. One or two of them eyed Mulder curiously,  
as if they recognized his face, but couldn't quite figure out why. MuldeÍr  
ignored them all. During his stay here, he'd been unable to roam the halls,  
unable to even turn his head to look around, so he concentrated on drinking  
in the sounds and smells of the place.

As they approached Room 213, Mulder suddenly stopped, sagging against the wall.

"You okay?" Scully laid her hand gently on his arm.

"Yeah, I guess so. Although suddenly I wonder what I'm going to gain by  
this, except maybe a new batch of flashbacks and nightmares."

They waited for him to pull himself together. From inside the room, Milton  
Davidson's voice boomed. "My god, it really is you, ain't it, boy. Almost  
didn't recognize you vertical. Georgeanne said you'd be coming by. That  
Walter with you? Come on in."

Mulder found himself drawn in by the boisterous old man. Skinner watched  
him as he hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed that had been his  
prison for so long. He'd been rescued because one old man believed in him.  
Now Mulder was starting to believe in himself once again.

The End


End file.
